Tuesday, November 6, 2007

Her father died when she was threeHer mother married again.She was eight when he came to live with themShe wondered how he’d be.

Would he be harsh? Would he be tough?Would he be boring? Would he be wise?Would he be kind? Would he be lively?She found out soon enough.

I speak of many years agoWhen people weren’t quite so clever,Oh yes! They knew countless fables,The name and duration of every season;Remembered their multiplication tables,Were able to sing, and dance and draw,But had one teency-weency flaw-No matter what, they would NEVERAdmit that they were wrong.And they had their own little thoughts,About what was right and what was not,Which weren’t always foundedOn reason.

Her new father was no exception,In fact, I’m rather sorry to say,He was worse than most.Definitely not a champion of youth,Not poor, or uncouth,But a slave to conventionAnd silly superstition.

His little step-daughter was somewhat different-A small, slim girl; with soft, dark hair.With skin so fair,Not just fair but pale,Apart from her cheeksWhich were flushed with the tint of the rising sun.Her black eyes which were large and dreamy,Gave her face a tragic air,But at times they flashed and sparkled,Revealing a spirit proud and bold.An intelligent girl, a sensitive girl,And you know what else made her stand out?She used her left hand to write, to reach out,To eat with, to hold,To feel, to mould.

Her step-father took this rather badly,He declared it ‘wrong’ and ‘strange’.But that wasn’t enough for him,He took it upon himself to changeWhat from birth she was used to do.

He knew he couldn’t while his wife was around.But unfortunately she died soon after he came.People said that after her initial heart-breakShe was never the same,And that she pined away.He now saw his opportunity, to take charge.

He told the girl, “You’re not to do it,It’s filthy and abnormal, and from now onYou’ll use your right hand like others-When you’re reading, when you dine,When you’re writing in your blasted diary…Mind you, I’ll keep you in sight.”She was stung, and angrily she burst out“But can’t you see, for me left is right.Using my left hand is what I’ve always done!It’s who I am, it suits me fine.”He growled, “You preposterous bratWe’ll just have to see about that.”

It started with a rap on her knucklesWhen he saw her using her left hand.

It grew into a mania: his inflated egoCoupled with his limited brainNot only protested against what she was doingBut that she was doing it in defiance.

He started using a steel scale,Once he drew blood-She winced and let out a little gasp of pain,And when she looked into his loathsome face,(Handsome in a way, but bloated with age)She saw something that made her seethe with rage-A fleeting look of triumph;And a smug smile.And then she made her choice-She wouldn’t raise her voice,She wouldn’t lift a finger;But from her rebellious purpose,She wouldn't for a second, stir.

A few months passed. She found a pleasureIn seeing the spark of anger, coupled with surpriseThat sprung up in her father’s beady eyesWhen she didn’t flinch under his torture.

One day-when she sat in bed, writingHer step-father pinioned her by her shoulders,She didn’t resist, she knew it would be of no use.He tied her left arm with a rope, firmly behind her back.Her face was expressionless. But his had a look of glory.“Defiant as she may be, what can she do now?Starve to death? The scrawny kid won’t dare.She’ll get a scare.Once and for all, she’ll give up her little fight.A stubborn streak is no weapon against a knot tied tight.”And he sniggered.

He left the room. She didn’t move.She didn’t go for dinner that night.The hours passed. It was dark. She didn’t even turn off the light.

Her mother’s picture was bathed in the golden lightOf the lamp on the desk by her bed.It seemed as if there was a haloShining around her mother’s head.Slowly, uncontrollably, a single tear trickled down the girl's cheekAnd dropped onto the rope that bound her left hand.And magically... that rope so tightly bound…Unwound!The girl watched as though in a trance.She thought at that time,(She remembers smiling at herself for thinking so)Her left hand radiated a faint, faint glow.

And it began to lead her. Lead her out of the room.Yes her hand began to lead her through the stillness and the gloom.She didn’t know how she knew,But the feeling inside her grew,That her left hand made her creepTo where her father father lay asleep.

She entered his bed-chamber.It almost felt to her a dream.And her left hand reached out,Her left hand gripped his neck.He opened his eyes, they seemed to screamBut his throat was dry, he couldn't shout.His limbs were numb, he couldn't move,As her fingers squeezed hard and tight.She stood silently by the bed.Watched him slide down to the floor, limp and dead.

Then-“Father” she said softly, without any fright,I told you, that for me, left is right."

P.S-I'm left-handed but my parents have been absolute darlings about it.

Wednesday, October 24, 2007

Dumbledore, without doubt is my favourite character from Harry potter(along with the Weasely twins.) He's my offical adopted grandpa. All along, I've idolised him for his genius, his wisdom and experience, his courage, his style, dignity and charisma, his way of looking through people and perceiving the minutest details. I've LOVED him for his warmth, for the protective, paternal air about him. And suddenly Rowling decided that she wants to make him "human", and decides that the best way to do so is by introcuding "human complexities."

As it is, I was very disappointed to discover that she'd projected young Dumbledore as a power-hungry, unbalanced teenager. But I accepted it, looked at it objectively and decided that it did make him more interesting. Besides, his turning over a new leaf only showed him to be all the more conscientous and resolute.

But now she springs this bombshell upon us. Dumbledore is gay. I'll be 100% frank. I much prefer straight men to gay men, but for the sheer dint of the fact that their manliness is what makes them appealing. It is true that my mind and body is tuned in a certain way, so my comfort level with homosexuals wouldn't be as high as with those who are straight. But that has VERY little weight with me. I love Ellen Degeneres and Elton John, even more so because they have the guts to openly declare their sexuality. I don't have any problems being friends with someone whose secual orientation isn't the same as mine. BUT; with Dumbledore it's a different matter altogether.

Over a long period of time, I've followed Dumbledore through the first 6 years at Hogwarts; grown with him and loved him for what he'd been projected as. I've come to associate certain characteristics and a specific persona with him. I practically hero-worship him for being a pillar of strength, tenderness and composure. And I don't want him to change in ANY way. Making him gay strikes a very jarring note.

What absolutely disgusts me, is that she had NO intention of portraying him as gay when she was writing the series. The papers say that a large number of fans had questioned his sexual orientation but it's a minute number as compared to the whole. MOREOVER, some fans will conjecture anything. Some of the Harry Potter fan-fiction is just outrageous. Just because some kids with a lot of spare time on their hands, and muddled heads, thought Dumbledore was gay, is NO proof that the novels hinted at it.

I realised that she stopped writing the series for kids with the advent of book 6. That's alright. It does cause complications when 8 yr olds who've read half the series, suddenly encounter pages that talk about making out and the like, but I like the idea of a maturing Harry. However, she needn't have done this.

This is NOTHING but an effort to regenerate interest in brand Harry Potter. The legal squabble over the Hogwarts Pujo Pandal is more than sufficient proof of that. She might as well ask for money from a little boy who wanders down the street in spectacles, a fake scar and a wizard hat. And as for the last book... a literary effort has rarely left such a weak impression on me. I started out determined to like it, but was forced to accept that it reads like a masala movie script. It's SO devoid of emotion, maturity, complexity and any of the finer touches that characterised her earlier works. Contrast Percy's departure in Book 5 with his reunion is Book 7. I was SCANDALISED at the way she brought about the death of Lupin, Tonks and Fred, 3 of my favourite characters. I didn't think she would stoop so low.

The fall of an idol (I'm talking about Rowling) is always distressing. Guess the only people we should look upto are ourselves.

Friday, October 12, 2007

It's because you have chosen DecemberTo be the last month of the yearI get equated with the end of life,With dreariness, gloom and fear.If it was the other way round(And really, that would’ve done just as well)Then Summer would've been comparedTo a scorching doom, to the fire of Hell.

What happened to my baby Christmas? Admit it:You love the tinsel, the carols, the plum cake,Stocking bulging with a gift all yours to take;You love it all, even if you laugh at the christmas spirit.

So I can’t do a VIBGYOR…how does that matter?White is pure, white is sereneWhite is sublime, white is pristine.White is free from superficialityWhite has softly flowing vitality.

I bring the old, the weak and wearyTo a peaceful end, and make way-For freshness and youth, for sunshine and green,For colour, for laughter and play.

And still so much hate...Hmphh...See what happens when I choose to hibernate.Always whining, feeling blue...Learn from Santa why can't you?

When God created the cow (and indirectly milk),The cold and metal (and indirectly the fridge);I wonder if He had a dreamOf some clever human inventing ice-cream.

When He blessed the boughs of a little treeWith cherries round, rosy and sweetWhen He first brought to notice how goodCashews and grapes taste when dried up in the heat,I wonder if He had a dreamOf them being used in ice-cream.

If so dear God, my love for you(which mind you, is very strong)Has increased a hundred-foldAnd I dedicate to you this song.

Wednesday, October 10, 2007

I'm generally quite scornful of the opposite gender. Sometimes it's just because I find it fun, sometimes because I feel I have reason to. For example, take the habit men have of beating each other up to solve problems. It's so brutal; so completely devoid of rationality and dignity....so PRIMITIVE! And it's not like they can't be conniving. Then the fact that they make fun of us women when we try to diet or fuss about our clothes, but don't want to pay us attention unless we're attractive. Then their obssession with porn. Their habit of generalising. Their swollen heads.

Am I a feminist? I think I am. After all, for generations, women due to their physical weakness have fallen prey to the rules set down by men. Insecure men, who cling to their self-created exalted position in socity. We're as powerful as we believe ourselves to be. But having said that... we need men. We need men because they're as much a part of life as we are, and there'll be a definite void if they aren't present. The greater variety we have in our interaction with people, the more points of view we come across, and the richer we are in terms of experience and depth. But ultimately...when I see Hugh Grant's lop-sided smile, or hear Jim Morrison's deep, powerful tones echoing round my room, or look into Ted Hughe's dark, brooding eyes, I go all woozy and stop trying to judge them.Other men I like/d are/were Richard Gere and Sydney Carton( of a Tale of Two Cities.)

Now let's have a look at those names.Hugh Grant- cute, funny, charming, what is called in somewhat old-fashioned terms-"foppish."Jim Morrison-he just exudes raw manliness and sensuality, on stage he seems to burn with a certain fire.Ted Hughes-His poems are dark, disturbing, with a cruelly honest perception of life. He's also known for his turbulent relationships.Richard Gere-Dashing and intellectual, he's got the class and flavour of vintage wineSydney Carton-A mysterious, aloof, reckless character, witty in a rather caustic way. Does his sacrificing nature raise him in my esteem? Yes it does. Do the bad luck and fighting spirit of a tragic hero make me want to take him under my wing? Yes.

There isn't much of a pattern here really. But I've come to a conclusion. I have no stereotypes as to what attracts me in a guy. As long as I see something appealing in his demeanor and personality it's alright. But to be with someone forever, he must have intellect, passion and conviction in his thoughts. A certain self-belief, yet NOT without sensitivity. Charisma definitely helps. The remaining frills are always secondary to the aforesaid criteria.

Now here's what makes things a little complex. He MUST respect me, and I think, be a little similar to me. It's childish and weak, but when I read a poem or listen to a songI'm overwhelmed by, share it with someone only to see their forced smile and hear an "it's nice I guess"; I feel like sititng down and crying like a baby. I feel so strongly about my thoughts that I long to share them with someone and have them understood, appreciated, valued, agreed with. I guess it's childish and weak. Only when a man has that, I think, will there be that special "connection".

Thursday, September 27, 2007

The azure fades into a white so paleIt seems to have no hue.Gradually the white begins to darken.A smooth silvery-blueAppears and then a steely-grey.

The clouds gather… they look like they’re spun from wisps of dreams-A gently swirling mass, playfully tweaked by the wind’s soft breath.I wish could ride on them and float away-To nowhere in particular.

They move so slowly they seem to lie stillOr is it the world that’s moving too fast?I think the clouds are as they should be.

Suddenly one catches my eye-Silhouetted against the skyIt seems to take a well-known shape-An urn… no wait! A swan…not a swan…The swishing skirt of a pearly-grey gown...I look harder… oh… it’s just a cloud.

A moment ago it was my dream.

The wind rises, and so does my heartbeatI feel a rush of blood to the head.And a cold rush of air against my faceCausing goosebumps to arise.

A rumble of thunder makes me shiver with delight.As the fork of white fire tears through the skyFor a second the world is violently violetBranded with streaks of electric pink and blood redThe black shadows lined with blinding light.

And then comes the rain-Sweet release from the painOf problems persistent, petty and mundane!With every drop, the tears of my soul find an escape from their cowardly refrain.

It totters betweenA soft drizzle and a torrential showerAnd I swing from a sleep sereneTo boundless ecstasy.

As the spray of raindrops sprinkled by the breeze(A spray as light as stray thoughts)Films my bare cheek with a silky mistMy heart is lulled to a restful trance.

In the air hangs thickThe musky fragnance of moist earth and wild flowers.A lone bird’s call pervades the calm.Down the steamingDust-choked streets the raindrops are streaming.And I… I who was dreamingAm dreaming still.I will always be dreaming.

Monday, September 3, 2007

NOTE:I LURVE school, every bit of it..the lunch breaks, the lessons, but there always will be one or two exceptions to the latter category and this is in honour of one of them, once again-actually written IN one of those periods on paper which I took the teacher's permission to borrow :p

Imagination can deal with it they say,Perception can completely change the wayAnything you dislike appears to be-Use them as tools,Either to build a world of fantasies, never to be broken;Or to mould those droning tones into a many-chambered vesselHiding secrets waiting to be found.But oh! it isn't easy, for you can never seeOr sense a situation in realityIf you look upon it with aloof practicality.

When you wish to fly away upon the "Wings of Poesy",When you yearn to melt into the haunting twilight,When you cry out to be borne by the waves of music,To feel the wind's soft caress against your cheek,To be lulled into a slumber awake with dreams-Strange shadows and echanting soundFlitting in and out of your mindTeasing hearing, teasing sight....

YOU CANNOT! For your brain is dulled-Every pore and every furrowClogged with shrill monotony,The predictable rise and fall,The dreariness and strain of it all,Knowing it'll be the same tomorrow.What pushes you to the brink of sleepItself wrenches you back from that abyss deep,That abyss you would die to plunge intoAs you remain teetering on the edge,Seemingly bound by some dreadful pledgeTo wallow in those words of dull precision.

Worse than having nothing to do(for there you can be helped by imagination )Having to do what completely destroys you,You are a writhing, whining, weak slave to...BOREDOM!

Saturday, September 1, 2007

I shall never forget that fateful day when you had gone out of the classroomDuring the ten-minute break, and left behind on your chair-Your small, round, suplementary tiffin box,That presented a sight at which I could only stare.

In the metal containter that lay glistening in the lightOf sunbeams dancing on the shining steel-Were five little brownies-crisp, thick and brown,Tantalising to smell, and soft to feel.

Not dry and crumbly as is the normNor gooey as cakes are often apt to be,But a delicate, subtle blend of them allAdding to the allure, the aura of mystery.

I had no time to entertain doubts of right or wrong.No time even, to feel fear for the consequences, at the discovery of my forthcoming act.The stealing of food (and not even for survival)Was punishable, I knew for a fact.

Of course I could have asked for your permissionBut the temptation was too strong, too great.Papillae, salivary glands, olfactory nerve, iris and epithelium all in overload,I picked up a brownie which with animal-ferocity I ate!

Oh! Every mouthful was as heavenly to meAs to a bare, bleak canvas is a splash of plaint;Warm honey trickling into a dry, empty hive;Cool water to a tiger, thirsty and faint.

You weren't the least bit annoyed when you caught me red-handed.Having had prior knowledge of your mother's superior baking skills,You were radiating that soft glow of satisfactionThat with which the heart, deserved admiration fills.

“For oft, when on my couch I lie in vacant or in pensive mood”Your brownies are what restore my good cheer!“They flash upon that inward eye which is the bliss of solitude”And remind me just how much food is dear.

Its by me, and a friend of mine whose name begins with a B. It was composed during a particularly insufferable period at school when someting interesting was being crucified by the teacher. We made it mushy on purpose.

Me: I'll meet you Monday morning, don't let me downB: Under the breaking sky, the fading glimmer of starsMe: When the cool blue is tinged with the faint blush of the early hoursB: Promises that weren't made to be broken, come back to me from that Autumn brown.

Me: While the rest of the world groans about the dreary seven days ahead,B: You and I darling, you and I will meet again.Me: Forget the pain of our wait, distance ourselves from the world of men.B: One moment of intimacy, one moment that is ours, on which light will finally be shed.

Me: I see our strength rising, with the rise of the burning disc.B: Mistakes are made so very often, such moments, are so very rare-Me: With our moment let no mistake unthinkingly interfereB: Secret was our love, silent our moans, it is now time to take the risk.

Me:-Seperate we must, but this time not separate for eternity.When the unfurling of the blazing streaks of gold does start,We will return to our homes, to life, each with feverishly beating heart,Yet deep down, a peaceful hope of security and serenity.

Saturday, June 30, 2007

b)Ever since I found out Jim Morrison is called the Lizard King, I’ve stopped acting like a hysterical, blonde, Bond-babe; every time I see one of those reptiles.

c)After studying Julius Caesar for 3 yrs, I have got into the most dreadful but delightfully fun habit of addressing random people as “How art thou faring my dear hot friend?”

d)I can reproduce the “meaow” of a BIG, FAT tom cat to perfection and have found it a VERY useful means of scaring unsuspeting souls out of their wits. And recently I''ve improved on this-I can now imitate a defunct violin playing Amazing Grace!

e)The shoelaces of my school shoes just refuse to remain tied... so I don't bother trampling down their wishes. Uptil now, I've counted around 7 good Samaritans who willfully tie my laces for me in the middle of the school corridors.However, my shoelaces have a very forceful personality (like everything I own) and untie themselves soon enough. The best part is-I NEVER TRIP ON THEM, OTHERS DO!! MUHAHAHAHA.

f)One of my friends fell into a TEN FOOT DITCH IN THE MIDDLE OF THE PURI SEA WITH A MALE FRIEND!ScaryRomanticScary

g)I am fascinated by Sean Kingston, honestly I am. It would take you balls to go on camera and do what he does, if you knew you looked like an inflated adolescent and sounded like a deflated adolescent.

h)A certain friend of mine who chooses to be known as Maximum Boy on Bloggers keeps trying to make me mad by going against my posts but its not going to work since1.He's giving me practise for debating-something I'm heavily into2.We're telepathic so I know, that he secretly likes me and my posts.3.That I can understand this ends up infuriating him even more :)

Sunday, April 22, 2007

Today, I had a discussion with my parents about my career options. Its left me a little confused and annoyed. Life in the real world sounds so bloody tough...so excrutiatingly bitter and viciated. The worst thing about it is...that its a like a ball and chain holding you back-there are certain things you've GOT to do, which might not necessarily go against your ideals, but your wishes. Isn't life all about living it the way you want to? About fulfilling YOUR desires so that when its time for you to leave, there's no regret?? Ironically, it seems that to fulfill those very desires, you first need to accomplish certain goals, the process of which makes you feel worn out; and ends up making what you initally wanted, repellent. Say a person is passionate about music, reading, good food, movies, travelling... as sensitive and classy as his tastes may be, he needs to be rich to able to put them into practice.

Yes I know, my disgust at all this is partially becuase I'm essentially a lazy, luxury-loving person. I want to eat the cake and have it too. But its not the hard work I detest as much as what that hard work makes you lose out on. I hate the cut-throat environment, and the instability of the future. I hate having to stretch myself to the extreme and have no breathing space left for myself.

I want to be with my family and enjoy the security and unconditional love which I derive from their company.I like having a social life.I like curling up in bed with my blanket, book and my cats on a cold winter night, enjoying the warmth and the hum of contentment.I love sitting under a tree in my school garden at lunch and having unfathomable, idiotic and thoroughly enjoyable conversations with my friends.There are days when the sky is overcast with clouds, there's that cool breeze blowing, the world seems to consist of soft, shadowy silhouettes and I feel how happy a person could be been just sitting there and looking at it for hours.

Its not just that which I love. I LOVE the thrill of excitement and adventure, the rush of adrenalin. I thrive on competition and drama-be it in an examination, acting in a school play, standing for Club President or on the basketball courts. Which is why, the prospects of being an acheiver in life is awfully enticing.

But I would like to do WHAT and WHEN I want. I don't want to get caught up in a never-ending rat-race. I have a questioning tendency and I tend to rely on logic a little more over intuition. So religion isn't exactly my thing. But at heart, I am a believer in emotion, in luck, and in a greater force which binds us all. At times like these, when my principles have gone for a toss, I appeal to that force. I pray so that the positive elements come together and make it happen for me-I don't have any pre-conceived notion of success-I just want to be happy and I hope I deserve to be.